


Open/Shut

by washourhands



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, F/M, Finger Sucking, Humiliation, Masochism, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Injuries, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:29:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/washourhands/pseuds/washourhands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Without any semblance of coordination you end up hurting yourself, and of all the offices you could've gone to, you chose Duncan's. Instead of making fun of you or demanding that you leave, he reacts a lot...differently.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry. This is some weird ass self indulgent shit, I tell ya what. Of course this is gonna be my first post on here. I'm so here for asshole characters, and also John Oliver. Damn. I mean, the tags say it all, but don't read if this kinda stuff grosses you out I guess? Enjoy?

Studying. That’s what you’re supposed to call it, but there isn’t much studious about making paper snowflakes. You can’t even remember why Annie was so dead set on them –decorations for a party or something?- but you couldn’t say no to those big blue eyes. That, and the action obviously held some nostalgia to it, so that was fun. That sharp pain, however, was neither nostalgic _nor_ fun. You had managed to bring the two blades so cleanly through the tip of your index finger. The cut was deep, well into the meat, and you hissed through your teeth when you dropped the scissors. Blood oozed and dripped, hot and wet, and you felt yourself flush for a number of reasons. Some of the study group showed concern, others made fun of you. You, a little more nervously than you meant to, dismissed yourself to get a band aid-did it need more than that?-grabbing a tissue and pressing it to your finger as you left the room.

You had no idea where the nurse’s office was, or even if there _was_ one, and you went through the list of people you knew well who worked here. Your stupid ass goes to Duncan's office. Maybe because its closest, or maybe that's an excuse because you’re thirsty now and maybe, somehow, you can seduce him while patching up your little wound. Right.

You knock and he tells you to come in. He's doing paperwork, maybe grading papers. Either way, he looks stupidly hot with a pensive look as he shuffles through papers, thick, furrowed brows over top scrunched brown eyes, (and a nose you want pressed against several inches of you.) You’re trash, and also kind of regretting coming to him. You ask if he has any band aids, lying and saying no one else does. He says 'yeah,' makes some snide remark about you being a klutz. You’re too absorbed by his voice to hear the words, watching long fingers open a drawer and retrieve a bandage that's much too big, but you'll take anything to get out of this mess. When he hands it to you he makes eye contact, and suddenly looks concerned.

"Are you okay?" He asks.

"Uh, yeah, just a little cut," you clearly want out, nervous and flustered. He moves to stand and you step back, still holding a tissue to the cut. It's soaked through now, and the warmth of it brings warmth elsewhere.

"Your pupils seem a bit large," he seems calculating, like he can see _right_ fucking through you, and it takes you off guard.

"Oh, hah, that's weird. Well, I'm just gonna leave-" he moves around you to shut the door, turns and grabs the wrist of your injured hand. The bloody tissue falls to the floor, and you just watch it go.

"Hey, uh, Duncan, that's kinda unsanitary. I'm still bleeding, too, so, uh," you’re trying to joke and play it off, but your eyes are still locked with his. For a tall, British nerd, he's hella intimidating right now.

"I know your little secret," he moves closer, sways as he steps, cocks his head like he's studying the way your breathing's picked up at the trickle of blood still oozing down your palm. You’re way too fucking wet, in more ways than one.

"What are you talking about?" You’re defensive now, putting on a front. It's giving you away, though.

"This turns you on, doesn't it?" his voice drops, drags through gravel and you can't tell if he's talking about that stupid shit he's doing with his voice or his free hand, now pulling the wound open further. Blood’s on those long fingers now, a tinge of sharp pain sends goosebumps over your arms and you bite your lip. **Shit**.

"Uh, n-no," You’ve never put up a weaker argument, not really wanting to fight him now. But oh, he's gonna judge you. He's so damn judgmental and oh-now he's got that finger in his mouth, tongue lapping at the wound, brown eyes still locked on yours. That's really not safe. That's also _really_ fucking hot, making you melt and your legs turn to fucking goo. **Fuck.** You can't stop the rush of air between your teeth that comes in with a hiss, or the short moan that comes when that very air escapes you. He pulls his mouth away, your finger slick with the spit that's shiny on his lips. Way too hot. Open a damn window.

"As a psychologist, I can see a masochist from a mile away. You were more worried about getting caught than tending to your wound, dirty girl," this time his eyes roam over you, and you laugh because, honestly?

"That sounds _so_ fucking pretentious," his eyes are back on yours again, and the laughter is a lot more nervous. And broken.

"I wasn't wrong, was I?" Now he's trying to seem special, like it’s his intelligence, his degree. You’re gonna egg him on.

"Nah, but I think it's less because of your career and more because of a kink," now he's got a wicked grin and his thumbs now pressed into the wound. You gasp and buckle.

"Nah," he mimics you, "I'm just here for whatever you're here for."

Somehow the obvious bullshit makes it hotter, like the idea that he's never done this before makes it impressive that he can press his fingers into an open wound, open you up in all sorts of ways.

You just bite your lip and watch him, use your free hand to steady yourself against him, grip at mismatched fabrics and hope he doesn't make fun. It doesn't hurt that badly up high, but down low it burns and aches like a son of a bitch, and you’d sell your soul to get him to relieve it. Honestly, you'd sell it to Satan himself. Hell, to a lackey, you don't fucking care, just to get long fingers curled against just the right spot- his free hand moves to unbutton your jeans, slide the zipper down, and you can't help but just watch his face as he does it. He's not watching you, or your face, he's got his eyes trained on everything his hand is doing, slipping beneath fabric to press against skin that is way too sensitive.

Duncan presses into your wound again, like he expects you to stop him, like you’re not okay with whatever song those piano fingers are working at playing. It's you, it's so fucking you, but instead of keys connected to strings it's wet, swollen flesh and nerves, and the sound isn't a bell like chime so much as a needy groan. He seems pleased with it, a cocky smirk and devilish glint in his eyes.

"You _really_ like this," it wasn't said with an air of surprise; he knew it the moment he touched your wrist. No, it was more to shove it in your face. If he's playing at humiliating you, you’re just gonna like this more. One side of his lips is still tugged upwards, and if you could get closer, you'd bite it. You want to hear him groan. Instead, he's playing you like a fucking fiddle, light, purposeful strokes-maybe more like a harp, then?

You’re whimpering and keening and he's just watching you come undone, a look of 'I told you so written all over him,' like he's getting back at you for all the times you jokingly said he couldn't please a woman. Fuck him.

"It's so weird how such a sweet looking girl can love when a man makes her bleed," his tone was almost casual, just the slightest edge of condescension upon it. Maybe that was just the accent? Who knows? Who can tell when those fingers you’ve been pining after slip into you, two at a time, making you choke on air and feel oh so stretched. And just as he presses his short nail into still oozing meat, too, making it throb and your pussy clench.

"Fuck!" If he didn't have you pressed tightly against him, you would have fallen.

"Shhhh," he reprimands, "shitty, thin walls," it's almost a complaint as much as it is a reminder, and you just utter another curse as he's curling inside you, clearly seeking out that magical little button that'll make you loud again.

Duncan sees blood trickling back towards your arm and decides to clean you up again, tongue following the trail, slow across your palm in a way that makes his name wobble out of you. That is so fucking dirty. Gross. Do it again.

Duncan pops your finger back in like its nothing, like you’re not oozing metallic into his mouth, like he knows you don't have some fucked up disease. He's so nonchalant about it and it makes you want to ride him until he, too, is choking on air. Finger tips hit that spot towards him with such pressure you almost sob, opting instead to squeal. He bites as if to warn you, but catches split flesh.

"Fuck- _shit_ Duncan, oh my **God** ," it's soft but still very high pitched and whiny, and he smiles around your finger like he just took gold at the Olympics. Ass.

"Thought I'd never get you to say that," now he's got your little injury trapped beneath his thumb, swirling like he did on your clit earlier, a different wetness lubricating the area. You want to fight him and tell him to shut up and fuck you, but he's honed in on that little spot that's got you seeing stars. This all feels so fucking dirty, being fingered by your psych professor who’s got a little dribble of your blood on his lips, but it’s way too fucking perfect. He wears your shade of red perfectly-it's got you begging for more.

"Pleasepleasepleaseohmy **fucking** GodDuncan _please_."

His teeth are on your neck now, biting in a way that has to leave bruises, pulls groans from you as your legs wobble. He's telling you to be quiet and how dirty and hot you are but all you hear is the depth of his voice and the vagueness of compliments and how pretty it sounds when he says them. And you’re remembering that quote from whoever that says everyone loves you when you're making them cum, because how hard you are right now makes you want to say ‘I love you,’ right out the gate. The force of it takes your breath away, makes you feel like your whole body is clenching, and all the important places feel wetter and warmer, and his soft laughter makes it last longer. It seems to go on longer than your body can stand, and when your body and soul are finally reunited you collapse against him and laugh. Light hearted and breathless. You’re Jell-O for a moment, molded against him. He hasn't said a word yet, surprisingly.

"Want me to do something for you?" You look up to him for your place buried in his vest covered chest, a smile that can only be described as 'sloppy' on your face.

He grins and says, "Let’s get you cleaned up first," like you give a shit about the mess.


	2. Hello Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been two years since I wrote this? Damn, oops. This chapter doesn’t have smut and is kind of short, sadly, but I promise the next chapter will be up soon!

It started with a text. Well-it had technically started with the incident in his office, with blood and fingers where they shouldn’t have been. But you felt that would be it, a story-start to finish-in one day. 

Three days later you got a text from Duncan. You didn’t even remember giving him your number (had someone else given it to him?) but you certainly weren’t going to complain.

It was almost a blatant booty call...text? He typed in that way older people did, where they had some grasp of the medium but not quite. That, and it was clear he was drunk.

So, you told him no. He had been drinking that day, you had tasted it on his breath, and though he made the advances you certainly felt like you had taken advantage of him. 

If you could sound affronted in a text, he did, all short sentences. ‘Oh. I see.’ It made you feel bad, really. You hadn’t meant to hurt his feelings, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. 

The next day, you decided to speak to him between classes, trembling like he hadn’t been knuckle deep not even a week ago. Shit. That made it worse.

You knock on the door, he invites you in. He’s flustered, hating that he has to grade the papers of people who haven’t put much effort into it. Neither has he, really, but that doesn’t matter. Ian looks up at you over his glasses, and you swear you can almost see his heart jump.

“Oh, uh, Y/N. What are you doing here?”

Where was that almost unbearable confidence he had the last time you saw each other?

“I wanted to talk to you about that, that, um, text you sent me.” It’s almost a question.

The door clicks softly behind you, but you don’t move much further into the office, and he stays put behind his desk. Like a Mexican stand-off. Like you’re both the skittish animal, and the person not wanting to get bit.   
He doesn’t speak, so hesitantly, you do.

“I-I didn’t want you to think that I was giving you the cold shoulder or wasn’t interested in you or anything, I just, I,” you take a steadying breath, not willing to look at him, and he thinks it’s strange how you could be so nervous around him.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you-when you’re drinking, and you were so clearly drunk, and you were drinking a few days ago, and it just doesn’t sit right with me to do anything with someone who doesn’t have their wits about them-“  
You ramble and the more you speak the dumber you feel, but you keep going, like you have to explain every word that escapes you. And, in a way, it’s endearing. It’s more telling than the way you squirmed when he manipulated your wound. 

In another, weirder way, it brought him back to that mindset, one almost predatory. You’re being vulnerable with him, submissive. Duncan wasn’t one to be domineering. A lanky, British alcoholic, he never had the chance to really do it with anyone. But you’re almost begging him for it, stammering and blushing, too afraid to approach but not so much so that you won’t stop talking. Maybe it’s because he had you buckled before, but it’s making his brain do things it rarely did.

So, he stands, and the noise of the chair rolling over carpet snaps your attention back to him. 

“Would you have come if I wasn’t drunk?”

That was the obvious implication, and yet it was embarrassing for you to admit.

“I-would you have wanted me to if you weren’t?”

He moves around the desk. Somehow he actually seems taller, not that he was very short to begin with. You, you feel so very, very small. Part of you will wonder later how a man with wire frames and big brown eyes could make you feel this way.

“Don’t dodge the question. Would you have come to see me if I wasn’t drunk?”

He almost seemed to tower over you now. When did he get this close?

“I-“ you shift your thighs together, turn your head but look up at him through the corner of your eye. Defensive, but turned on. He doesn’t miss it, as blind as he can so often be. 

“Y-yes. Yeah, I would have.”

Duncan wasn’t as smooth as he tried to be, his nose clashing against yours, edge of his glasses scraping your face, but the force in which his lips hit yours still had the desired effect. He made you weak kneed again, this time with much less effort. Long fingers cupped your cheeks in a juxtaposition that had your heart fluttering-delicate hands against messy lips and knocked teeth. He probably didn’t realize how tender that gesture was. He probably only thought of it as some sort of urgent thing. 

When he pulled away you thought you would fall. Both of your chests rose and fell rapidly, and seeing him with flushed cheeks and lips made you-in no poetic, romantic, uncertain terms-want to choke on his dick.

Again, he saw how blown your pupils were, and thought it crazy how he, of all people, could make you act like this by speaking in a firm tone and making out for less than five minutes. It was all psychological, all attitude, and memories of blood on his tongue and you on his fingers.

“Come to my place tonight,” it wasn’t a question, but you both knew he didn’t really have to ask. You simply nodded as he pulled his hands from your face and made to walk past you and out the door.  
Your fingers around his wrist stopped him.

“I don’t know where you live.” 

You both laughed sheepishly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also realized after going back and reading the first chapter, there was no kiss?? Ohhh well lmao

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, man. This is so niche, like, I don't know if anyone else is feeling this like I was. Lemme know if you are, though!


End file.
